He says, you’re good for my mental health.
She says, you’re good for my metabolism.
He says, tomorrow I could try
waking up without you, as she piles
two handfuls of sand on her half of the bed.
They smuggle inside his pores—solid earth stars,
like teeth, fluxus shape. Now she is everywhere:
not inside him, but between him. She wants to start
a collection of residue left over from tender acts
between two people: cut hair, international currency
(three shekels between her fingers, whittled down
to bargained sliver-ghosts), lost & found composure.
Some people christen it garbage, she prefers favors.
She wonders: what flavor is she? He says, lime or smoke.
And what color? He says, skin. Not sand?
No, he says. Not sand. Her body is made up of different colors,
she doesn’t think he realizes this. She draws a color-coded map
of her body: topographical attention beside each
areola bump. The body is seventy percent
clean water. The body cleans his eyes, he says.